


i found submission in the form of your grace

by nevershootamockingbird



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Post-Canon, Priest Kink, Religion Kink, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), misuse of rosaries and confessional booths, with a side of emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 07:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21334513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevershootamockingbird/pseuds/nevershootamockingbird
Summary: "You never had anything that needed absolving, Clay."The rosary beads press into his skin, gentle bruises that feel like love and worship. Clayton presses his forehead against Matthew’s, clasps his fingers together in some kind of imitation of prayer, and lets himself believe.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 18
Kudos: 102





	i found submission in the form of your grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losebetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losebetter/gifts).

> I have no excuses. 
> 
> Future fic, no spoilers to the series. Just the good Reverend helping Clayton through the act of confession.
> 
> I'm already going to hell, I might as well enjoy the time it takes to get there.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He keeps his head bowed in supplication as he speaks, peering out from beneath his lashes to view the reverend seated on his bench in the confessional. The curtain is pushed to the side, nothing separating the two of them; in the small, enclosed space, it’s easy to forget about the rest of the city, the rest of the whole fuckin’ world. 

It’s easy to forget about everything other than Matthew, here.

“Kneel, my child. It’s time for your penance,” and his voice is low, smooth, has a shudder running down Clayton’s spine and his hands flexing behind his back. The rosary beads are a gentle pressure around his wrists, looped carefully and bound in as easy slip-knot. 

It would be so easy to twist and snap the delicate string. Clayton drops to his knees and gazes up at the priest in front of him instead. 

He tilts his head back, smile curling across his mouth lazy and insolent. Matthew stares at him consideringly, calmly, and it sets an itch under his skin, only vaguely soothed when the reverend reaches out and combs gentle fingers through his hair, brushing his bangs back from his face. Heat pools low in belly, and he asks, “What’ll it be this time, preacher? A few Hail Mary’s?”

“No, I quite think your lesson needs to be a little more severe this time, Mr. Sharpe.” The hand in his hair tightens suddenly, tugging sharply at his scalp, and Clayton groans low, lashes fluttering before he finds Matt’s gaze again. His pupils are blown so wide he can scarcely see the familiar warm brown. “It’s high time we put that mouth to a better use for the Lord, is it not?”

He sucks in a sharp breath, lets his gaze drop down from that serene expression to gaze over the stark white clerical collar, the neatly buttoned cassock, down the large bulge pressed the against the fly of the reverend’s slacks. 

Clayton’s not ashamed of the whine that creeps out of his his throat, needy and wanting. 

Another sharp tug at his hair draws his attention back up up up, until his eyes are meeting Matthew’s again, reading the question there. He grins again, as disrespectful as he can manage, and drawls, “I trust your judgement, Father.”

“Neither God nor I appreciate your insubordination to the Lord’s will, Mr. Sharpe. You are in dire need to repent and atone.” The words echo damningly in the confessional booth, Matt’s voice a low, bassy rumble, and Clayton feels another jolt of arousal down his spine, liquid and thick. A thumb hooks into his mouth, pressing down on tongue and teeth until his jaw is held open wide; the hand falls from his hair, and Clayton can only watch as thick fingers slowly unbuckle the belt, pulling it free until slacks can be unbuttoned and unzipped, until finally, finally, Matthew’s cock is pulled free from all confines. Drool floods his mouth at he watches the reverend stroke himself slowly, fingers closing around hard flesh, thumb sweeping over the moisture already beading at the tip. 

Clayton  _ wants _ .

His fingers twitch behind his back, aching to reach out, to touch, to beg Matt to let him do it instead. The rosary beads press more firmly into his wrists, sure to leave indentations in his flesh, and Clayton forces himself to relax, to be patient, to wait. A smile crosses his partner’s face, a flash of pride in his eyes that hits Clayton like a blow to the gut, makes him want to plead and show his throat and give everything over to the man in front of him. 

“It’s time for your penitence, Mr. Sharpe,” and then he’s being pulled in by his jaw, until he’s forced to shuffle forward between the reverend’s spread knees. The thumb withdraws, and then there’s just the familiar, slow slide of Matthew’s cock pressing into his open mouth. 

The thick girth stretches his lips wide, weight heavy on his tongue, and Clayton moans softly at the clean, bitter taste. Fingers slide back into his hair, and he looks up to find Matthew breathing heavy, eyes hooded and dark as he watches. 

It sets his blood fuckin’ boiling even as it quiets his mind. 

“As you are otherwise preoccupied with thinkin’ on your sins,” and he rocks his hips forward as he speaks, cock sliding in a few more inches, bumping against the soft clutch of Clayton’s throat, “I’ll complete an Act of Contrition for you, as is only fitting a reverend do for his one of his flock.”

Another roll of his hips, and Clatyon chokes on a whine, breathes through his gag reflex as Matthew’s cock edges into his throat. 

He shuts his eyes, feels the last of the tension drain away from his neck, his shoulders, his spine; he submits, and the reverend begins to pray. 

“O my god, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,” Matt’s voice rumbles out, steady and even despite his heavy breathing, and Clayton shudders minutely as the words wash over him, “and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of hell, but most of all because they have offended Thee, my God, Who art all good deserving of my love.”

His hips rock shallowly as he speaks, thrusting his cock into Clayton’s mouth at a slow, even pace, and he’s fuckin’ rapturous with it. Drool and precome slide down his chin and drip onto the wood floor beneath his knees; he breathes when he is allowed it, and does not fight the tears that slip out from beneath his closed lashes. 

Nails scrape along his scalp, and Matthew prays, “I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.”

A weighted pause follows, and Clayton finally looks up, blinks past the moisture in his eyes to find Matt staring down at him with a dark kind of hunger on his face. It draws another whine from his throat, needy and broken, and the reverend hisses out a curse between his teeth, shifting on the bench and bucking his hips hard enough to fully seat his cock within Clayton’s mouth and throat, holding there long enough that Clayton begins to grow light-headed. 

Tears blur his vision anew. The fingers in his hair tighten, pleasure sparking in his gut, and then Matthew murmurs low, “Amen.”

He withdraws just enough to let Clayton take in a ragged, gasping breath, before beginning to really  _ fuck _ his mouth, cock driving down his throat with each thrust, and he gives himself over to the reverend entirely. He loses himself in the sloppiness of it, in the weight on his tongue and the girth that stretches his lips, the bitter precome that leaks across his tongue and down his throat. 

Matt’s breathing is loud in the confessional booth. Clayton doesn’t think he ever wants this to end. 

It’s not long before the reverend begins to falter, his thrusts turning erratic, and a thrill runs under Clayton’s skin. He looks up through damp lashes to catch Matthew watching with something like devotion in his eyes, his jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temples. When their eyes meet he growls, a sound that sets every last nerve alight, and then his hips still on one final thrust. Come floods Clayton’s mouth, Matt’s cock twitching against his tongue as he’s held still and made to take it.

It’s the only communion he ever fucking wants. 

Clayton swallows what he can, the rest of it spilling out to join the mess on his chin, some dripping down onto the floorboards. Matthew pants down at him as he watches, eyes possessive and dark; when he finally pulls his softening cock from between Clayton’s lips, he smiles, slow and easy, lifts his other hand from where it’s been curled around the bench’s edge to cup his cheek instead. “Well done, Mr. Sharpe. The Lord will be most pleased with your penance.”

His jaw is sore, lips swollen and clumsy, but he still twists against the hold on his hair just enough to press a kiss to the delicate skin of Matt’s wrist, drags his tongue over the tendons just to feel the fingers in his hair twitch. 

“Beautiful,” comes the low murmur, has his cheeks flushing anew and his cock throbbing in the confines of his pants. His arousal has been a distant thing, but now it flares bright and hot in his stomach, makes him shudder and look up at the man above him. 

“Matty,  _ please _ ,” he gasps, begs, voice broken and abused. Above him, Matthew inhales sharply and leans down, letting go of his hair as he does; before Clayton can bemoan the loss, a heavy palm presses against his throat, fingers curling around his neck. 

The reverend's voice is low and dangerous as he says, "I don't recall giving you the permission to speak in the Lord's house, Clayton."

Matt’s fingers press in tighter, just enough to make him feel a little lightheaded, and Clayton exhales a moan as he gives into it, trying to press more into the grip. 

“There, isn't that better?” And he smiles, beatific, gentle, at complete odds with the intense look in his eyes. His free hand drops down, easily undoes Clatyon’s belt buckle, the fastenings on his pants, shoving everything down his thighs. 

His cock juts out proudly between his legs, leaking and so hard it fuckin’ aches; Matthew runs his knuckles gently up it, touch feather-light, and Clayton gives a broken keen, eyes fluttering as his hips jerk forward. It earns him a low sigh, lips brushing against his temple as the reverend shifts forward. 

“So eager for the touch of the Lord’s servant,” Matt murmurs, wrapping his hand loosely around his dick, and Clayton gasps, lungs tight as he struggles to breathe past the grip on his throat. He’s on edge already, skin too hot, thighs trembling, pleasure in his gut coiling tighter and tighter, but Matthew just keeps his grip loose as he begins to slowly jerk him off, thumb sweeping over the head of his cock to smear precome down the shaft, making everything slick and messy. 

It’s so fuckin’ good, but it isn’t enough, and from the look on his face Matthew damn well knows it. 

The hand on his throat loosens suddenly, and Clayton takes in a deep breath, losing it all on a shout that cracks and goes silent when Matt twists his wrist suddenly on the next upstroke, thumb pressing firm against the bundle of nerves just below his cockhead. 

Clayton feels his muscles seize, and then the grip on his throat is back, cutting off his next inhale, and Matt is looming above him, all consuming and all around him, the holiest being he’s ever known. 

“It’s time for your absolution, Clayton,” Matthew murmurs, pressing a kiss to his temple, his forehead, between his brows, “Come for me, now.”

He can only listen. 

The tension in his gut snaps and he spills over the reverend’s hand with a broken sob, come splattering onto the floor beneath them. Matt strokes him through it, murmuring low praise and just loosening the grip on his throat, keeping him in place as though Clayton would ever want to leave. 

“There you go,” he murmurs when Clayton shudders and whines quietly, finally releasing his cock. The hand around his throat slides up to cradle his jaw, gently guiding his head down to rest against Matthew’s knee as he pants and slowly relaxes, trembling minutely. Fingers slide gently, reverently through his hair as he calms, the touch grounding, and Clayton thinks that if heaven exists outside of this man, he doesn't want to know it. 

There's a sigh above him, sweet-sounding and content, and Clayton lets his eyes shut as he soaks in the attention, rubs his cheek against the wool of Matt’s slacks just because he can. The fingers running through his hair don’t stop. 

He thinks, a little hazily, that he’d be pretty fuckin’ happy if they never left the confessional.

“Lovely,” Matt murmurs after another moment, and he squirms a little, stilling when his partner chuckles and tugs gently at his hair. The next words are just as soft, full of an adoration he doesn't think he deserves but is too selfish to fight against, “You were so good for me, Clay. Perfect creature, look at you.”

The praise slips under his skin, soaking into his very bone and marrow until he feels like he's floating, until he has to turn his face into Matt’s knee because he ain't a coward but goddamn if he doesn't know how to accept this, even after all these months. 

Matthew lets him hide. Clayton’s heart feels too big for his chest. 

“So, Father," when he can finally speak, lifting his head and grinning up lazily in answer to Matt's content hum, "Think that was enough to absolve my sins?"

The hand stroking his hair slows, stilling before curling loosely through the strands and tugging his head back, just enough for Matthew to have the space to lean down towards him once more. His partner licks the come off his chin and into his mouth, lazily fucking his tongue against Clayton's until the smaller man feels pliant and used. He draws back after a few moments, gaze soft and sincere as he murmurs, "You never had anything that needed absolving, Clay."

The rosary beads press into his skin, gentle bruises that feel like love and worship. Clayton presses his forehead against Matthew’s, clasps his fingers together in some kind of imitation of prayer, and lets himself believe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading it even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. This one was a lot of fun.
> 
> Title is from "Grace" by Lewis Capaldi, because it's a damn good song and because it was a little too tongue in cheek for me to not use.
> 
> Thank you again for reading! You can find me over on [tumblr](https://nevershootamockingbird.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/daleytwin1) if you feel like yelling with me about these characters, this show, or, you know, anything else!


End file.
